You'd like him very much.
Wordsworth, I see, has a good many pieces announced in one of 'em, not
our "Gem." W. Scott has distributed himself like a bribe haunch among
'em. Of all the poets, Cary [3] has had the good sense to keep quite
clear of 'em, with clergy-gentlemanly right notions. Don't think I set
up for being proud on this point; I like a bit of flattery, tickling my
vanity, as well as any one. But these pompous masquerades without masks
(naked names or faces) I hate. So there's a bit of my mind. Besides,
they infallibly cheat you,--I mean the booksellers. If I get but a copy,
I only expect it from Hood's being my friend. Coleridge has lately been
here. He too is deep among the prophets, the year-servers,--the mob of
gentleman annuals. But they'll cheat him, I know. And now, dear B. B.,
the sun shining out merrily, and the dirty clouds we had yesterday
having washed their own faces clean with their own rain, tempts me to
wander up Winchmore Hill, or into some of the delightful vicinages of
Enfield, which I hope to show you at some time when you can get a few
days up to the great town. Believe me, it would give both of us great
pleasure to show you our pleasant farms and villages.
We both join in kindest loves to you and yours.
C. LAMB _redivivus_.
[1] An _edition de luxe_, illustrated by John Martin, and with an
Introduction by Southey.
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